Clandestine
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: One thing, Steve Rogers was sure of, things were never boring where Natasha Romanoff was concerned. Steve/Nat pairing because I'm totally addicted.


Her knee is pressed into his hip. Now, while normally, this might be considered a huge turn-on for a guy, considering how much pressure she's exerting, it borders more on painful than arousing at the moment. And, the icing on the cake, is the fact that it's only five in the morning and while he may be Captain America, the only guy who slept for seventy something years and woke up the exact same age as when he went to sleep, he still enjoys the comforts of sleep. Long story short, even _he _thinks it's unholy to be awake at such an early hour, much less trying to maim someone. His blue eyes fly open when her other knee connects with his hip and the pain intensifies.

"Tasha," His voice is croaky and frog-like, still thick with sleep. "What are you doing?"

His half-open blue eyes barely make out her cat-suit clad form - uh, damn, she means business - in the darkness of his bedroom but he can see her enough to know that her hands are on her hips and she's straddling his waist. And squeezing. Hard. Damn. That really hurts. He's used to her breaking into his apartment, in fact, the last time she had broken into his apartment had yielded some pretty fantastic results but this time, he thinks she might be trying to break something. Like one of his body parts.

"Did you tell Director Fury about us?" Her growling voice sounds eerie in the still dark air and he absently shivers as the true danger in her tone washes over him.

He props himself up on his elbows and stares at her in sleepy disbelief. "Tasha, how can I tell Director Fury about us when I don't even know what the hell we are?"

Her knees relax and she scoots up slightly, plopping herself down on his stomach. He remains completely unfazed but not entirely unaroused by her actions. Steve collapses back on his bed and rubs his eyes, still curious as to why the hell she couldn't wait three or four, maybe even five hours to discuss this with him. Hell, at this point, he would have settled for her waiting _one _hour but no. He should have known Natasha didn't work like that. She was quick and direct. No beating around the bush or waiting.

The woman just might be the walking definition of impatience.

"So, how does he know?" She speaks, more to herself than to him, but he can hear the angry curiosity in her tone.

He reaches his hands up, groping his way through the dark until he finds her hands. He gives them a gentle shove and replaces them with his own on her hips. He squeezes them lightly and traces circles on her hip bones with his thumb. He bides his time until he knows she's less likely to find a creative way to end him before speaking again, keeping his voice as calm as possible. "Tasha, are you sure he knows?"

"He said something about my notes in your files," Natasha informs him, tightening her grip on his waist.

"Okay, whoa, Tasha, calm down." Steve shakes his head against his pillow, forcing himself not to laugh at her anxiety. "He knows you check on me. Of course, he knows you make notes on the files I turn in."

His matter-of-factness and the fact that he is right send her reeling and before he can even blink, she's clambering off of him. He releases a breath and watches as she makes her way to the door of his bedroom. Her steps are silent and her movement through inky black air is graceful. He shakes his head in confusion, curious as to what just happened as one minute he's got the Black Widow sitting on top of him, squeezing the life - or the feeling, at least - out of his hips and the next, she's up and moving through his apartment like nothing happened.

"Tasha, wait!" Steve throws the blanket off of his legs and starts up after her.

He pads through the bedroom, far less silent and graceful than she was and searches for the light switch in the hallway. How the hell she walks in the dark, he'll never know but he can't do it. Even if the usually dull orange light hurts his eyes and he has to blink several times just to be able to see, he refuses to walk in the dark. Still stumbling slightly, he pads to the kitchen where he knows she'll be. She doesn't just break into his apartment at night. She does so whenever the mood strikes her and if it's in the morning, he knows it because his coffee will be waiting along with a sizable breakfast - a few times, he's given serious thought to inviting Thor over for breakfast - and believe him when he said, the woman is a damn good cook.

"Tasha," He sighs sleepily, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen.

She's moving around the kitchen with the agility of a cat stalking it's prey; silent, graceful and lethal. The coffee pot is making that god-awful gurgling noise that lets him know it's time to find a new one and he can hear the sound of bacon sizzling to a darkened crisp in the pan. She finally stations herself at the counter, cracking eggs and pouring milk into a bowl. He finds it odd to see her doing something incredibly domestic but at the same time, it seems so natural that he can't help but wonder if perhaps he should invite her over to cook for him more often.

"S.H.I.E.L.D can't know about us, Steve." Natasha uses his name for emphasis, "The Avengers intiative was meant to bring us together as a team, not like this."

"S.H.I.E.L.D won't know." He pushes off of the door-frame with his shoulder and makes his way to her. "Tasha, no one knows. You make notes in my files and I send notes to Stark and Banner all the time. We help each other out. It's part of being an Avenger."

The whisk pauses in the bowl, slender fingers tightening around the metal handle when his arms slip around her lithe body from behind. He interlaces his fingers over her stomach and nuzzles his face into her neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and her shampoo. He knows why she's freaking out. While technically S.H.I.E.L.D can't do anything now that they're already in a relationship, if you could call it that, Fury and the board would have some choice words for both of them and it would not reflect well on the Avengers for them to be reamed out. The board was already fighting Nick Fury tooth and nail against the Avengers and their relationship would only be fuel for that fire.

"I just don't want to get you in trouble," Natasha tells him, resuming her job of whisking the eggs and milk together. "I don't want to cause trouble."

"Tasha, I'm the reason that this even started in the first place." Steve laughs into her hair, kissing her neck tenderly. "And, I really don't think Coulson is going to let anything happen to us if S.H.I.E.L.D did find out. He seems to like us."

His sharp blue eyes watch her use a spatula to remove the bacon from the pan and pour the eggs in, using the whisk to ensure they cooked to the right consistency. Nothing more is said. Nothing more needs to be said between them. He moves away from her to put some bread in the toaster and pour them both a cup of coffee. The sound of eggs cooking, coffee being poured into cups and the static click of the toaster lever clicking into place is all that fills the still silence of the kitchen. It's a comfortable domesticity between them.

Two plates and the appropriate silverware are set on his small kitchen table along with a platter of eggs, bacon, and lightly buttered toast. Coffee cups are re-filled and they sit down at the table, still enveloped in a comfortable silence. They eat breakfast in perfect contentment, occasionally making eye contact and offering each other small smiles. Their peaceful breakfast is interrupted by the sharp ring of her cell-phone. Her green eyes roll in dread and she answers with a sharp greeting; "Romanoff."

The conversation is short and clipped but he knows instantly that she has to leave. It's half past five in the morning and she probably hasn't slept all night but duty calls and she has to answer. She drains her coffee cup and stands up from the table. He wipes his mouth and follows suit, trudging behind her to the door. He's become accustomed to these unannounced visits and always dreads her leaving. He grabs her wrist before she can open the door and in one fluid move, twirls her into his arms and pins her to the door. She looks surprised but she knows what he's doing. Although, she swears one of these days, he's going to make her forget her own name.

"Come back when you're done." Steve whispers against her mouth. "I'll unlock a window."

"This is New York. I wouldn't. I can pick a simple window lock, Steve." Natasha whispers, nipping at his lower lip. "I'll be back later."

And just like that, he's stumbling back a few steps and she's slipping out of his apartment. She comes and goes like a shadow, never staying for too long for fear of being caught. He knows that she's not as comfortable in his apartment as she is at S.H.I.E.L.D and that's okay. She'll never be comfortable in his apartment but she wouldn't be Natasha if she was. He likes the unannounced visits, the little notes she leaves for him and the occasional meal left behind when she slips in and out unnoticed. Their affair is clandestine and neither of them are in any hurry to change it. That's okay, though. He likes the sponteity.

It keeps things interesting.

Then again, things were never boring where Natasha Romanoff was concerned.

* * *

**So, one minute she's trying to hurt him and the next she's trying to cook for him, 'tis a strange pair they** **are. I figure, Natasha's an independent woman so she's probably a damn good cook because you don't maintain a figure like that, living on take-out food. Anyway, I don't know why I suddenly decided to throw them into a picture of domesticity, I just liked the idea of Natasha occasionally cooking for Steve. Just the occasional breakfast or sometimes dinner, maybe, if he's been away on a mission. I liked the idea of her taking care of him in her own shadow-like way. Just little notes here, meals there and the like. It's not the picture of perfect domesiticty but it's as close as they'll come. Anyway, leave me some love, Dolls! **

**Love** **ya,**

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


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